


A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/fluff_friday/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/fluff_friday/"><b>fluff_friday</b></a> in honor of <a href="http://dionusia.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://dionusia.livejournal.com/"><b>dionusia</b></a>'s LEE ADAMA WEEK. Lee Adama's sexy muscles make the world a brighter place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current location:** |  [home!](http://maps.google.com/maps?q=home%21)  
---|---  
**Current mood:** |   
happy  
**Current music:** | mary watching Pushing Daisies  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic](http://coffeesuperhero.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [fic: bsg](http://coffeesuperhero.livejournal.com/tag/fic:+bsg), [fluff friday](http://coffeesuperhero.livejournal.com/tag/fluff+friday)  
  
  
_**Fic: A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever**_  
**Title:** A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever  
**Fandom:** Battlestar Galactica (2003)  
**Characters/Pairing:** OC, Lee Adama's Dreamy!Muscles  
**Rating:** PG-13 for adult themes  
**Spoilers:** Through the end of season 3 to be safe.  
**Summary:** Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/fluff_friday/profile)[**fluff_friday**](http://community.livejournal.com/fluff_friday/) in honor of [](http://dionusia.livejournal.com/profile)[**dionusia**](http://dionusia.livejournal.com/)'s LEE ADAMA WEEK. Lee Adama's sexy muscles make the world a brighter place.   
**Disclaimers:** I do not own anything or anyone mentioned in this fic. I am not profiting from the writing or posting of this fiction. All these characters belong to Ron D. Moore, David Eick, Sci Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries.

**A/N:** Thanks to [](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/profile)[**leiascully**](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/) for crit, as per usual. Inspired by [](http://dianora2.livejournal.com/profile)[**dianora2**](http://dianora2.livejournal.com/)'s [TOTALLY SEXY LEE ADAMA PICSPAM ](http://dianora2.livejournal.com/572490.html).

  
When you strolled into Joe's at 1900, all you wanted was some of the strongest alcohol they could pour you and someone's lips to claim for the evening, anything the gods could send you to soothe away the hurt of the day.

It's been one hell of long ride since the worlds ended, you think, as you toss down a cubit and throw back your first shot. You used to be vaguely successful. You had family and friends and books and a new car and a successful practice, and that guy from the bar had asked for your number, and maybe that would work out or maybe it wouldn't, but at the least you'd get a free meal and you could wear that dress and those boots and maybe get some hot up-against-the-wall sex before you both called it a night.

You close your eyes and signal the bartender, and he pours another, and this time you're remembering how you woke up in a world where bombs were falling, and then suddenly you were fighting Cylons and losing comrades and dodging bullets, all under the often misguided leadership of a mediocre Pyramid player. And now you're on this Battlestar, this modern relic with its A-shaped halls and backasswards computer systems, all under the often misguided leadership of some guy they just call The Old Man. You think you liked it better when you were following the Pyramid player, because at least you had a purpose, and let's face it-- he looked damn pretty giving you orders.

What you really miss, if you're honest with yourself-- and two shots later, you're feeling honest, even if you've got no one to share your secrets with-- are the little wonders that no one will remember, that no one can duplicate, like the statues from the museum in Delphi, gone, broken, disintegrated. It's a loss that you feel even now, with alcohol thrumming pleasantly along in your bloodstream, so you wave Joe over and he fills up your glass and wanders away. You raise your glass in a silent toast to those chiseled marble gods and goddesses, thinking of the way you used to wander through the exhibits when you were between hearings, enjoying the echo of your heels on the tile and the way the room seemed to shrink when you'd stare at all the beauty before you. Somehow you find yourself with another full glass, which you guzzle down, and soon the alcohol is sending your thoughts on strange adventures. You're back at that museum, and you're staring at a perfectly carved image of the ideal male form, and you're wondering where anyone would even have found a model for that kind of beauty. Even Pyramid boy doesn't have that kind of grace.

There's still liquor in your glass, so you tip it up, tilting your head back to encourage the last few drops to slip down into your waiting mouth, and then over the rim of your glass you see the answer to your question. He's across the bar, slumped over and leaning on one arm, hand gripping his own drink, and by the gods, you'd give every frakking memory you have of your former life to be that glass right now. He's military, wearing those layered tanks that the pilots are always sporting, and you know you're staring and you know you should stop, but you've never seen arms like that on a human being. They are defined and shaped with laser precision, from his forearms to his shoulders, and you think you finally understand why they call them guns, because if the bulge of that bicep is any indication, those things should be classified as heavy artillery. There's the briefest, sexiest space between the last curve of his shoulder and the first slope of his clavicle, and you're thinking of all manner of exciting times you could have with just those few inches of skin when he lifts his hand to flag Joe down. He sits up while Joe pours, and when you have a clear view again, he's gulping down his drink and now your eyes are on the column of his throat, watching the slide and bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. He stands up and slides off the barstool, unsteady but determined, and from this angle you can see that though they're making a valiant effort, those duty blues can't contain the muscle that rises out from his hips, and it's all you can do not to follow him out of the bar and shove him up against a bulkhead. He's got this look on his face as he stumbles out, though, that takes the lust right out of you. It may just be all the alcohol controlling your meandering thoughts, and maybe you'll take this back tomorrow, but for tonight you believe you've seen beauty, as sublime and conflicted and beautiful and proud as your statues, and you think that will be comfort enough to sustain you. If there is still beauty in what is left of this world humanity is making of this Fleet, then there is hope for art, for more statues, for love. This is the first happy moment you think you've had since everything fell apart, and you breathe out a sigh as your fingers relax their grip on your glass and uncurl, one by one, and a slow smile spreads across your face. Maybe it's time to learn a new trade, you think, and giggle as you wonder how you could get your hands on some clay.


End file.
